


Untitled Bullshit

by hakunahistata, Izulkowa



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Amputee Bucky Barnes, M/M, Physical Therapy, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-12
Updated: 2018-10-12
Packaged: 2019-07-29 18:34:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16269980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hakunahistata/pseuds/hakunahistata, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Izulkowa/pseuds/Izulkowa
Summary: “Date?” Steve smiles.“Yeah, you an’ me. Dinner and a movie, or we could always skip straight to the fun stuff. I’m easy.”Steve shakes his head with a small laugh. “Think you have the wrong idea, pal.”“One of these days I’m gonna convince you that it’s me who has the right idea.” Bucky says, just like he does every appointment.***After an injury leaves Bucky Barnes armless, jobless, and back at his parent’s house, he meets his physical therapist, Steve Rogers. It’s not the best timing but it’s certainly not the worst.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> A thousand thank you's to [izulkowa](http://izulkowa.tumblr.com/) who was immeasurably kind throughout the entirety of this event! You were a joy to work with and such a gifted artist! 
> 
> Special shoutout to [mambo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mambo/pseuds/mambo) who kept me going and is an all-around amazing friend. I owe you some stove hot chocolate when you come back to Brooklyn! 
> 
> I am by no means a medical professional and I'm sure most things in here are wildly inaccurate. I'm just a gal in love with two guys who are also in love. Address all complaints to [me](http://hakunahistata.tumblr.com/).

“So, I’m free Wednesday, Thursday, and Saturday evening.” Bucky announces before he’s even through the doorway.

Steve spins in his chair to greet him, unable to hide his overly fond smile. He kicks his heels into the polished hardwood floor, rolling towards the padded bench and patting it with a grin.

“And why do I need to be so up-to-date with your schedule?” He smiles, motioning towards the seat when Bucky hesitates in the doorway, expression darkening when his gaze flicks to the bench. It’s there and gone in a moment, his expression brightening by the time his eyes fall back on Steve. When Bucky finally saunters over, he sits like a child, legs splayed out and playfully kicking Steve’s rolly chair back. Steve laughs catching himself before he can roll too far.

“For our date.” Bucky grins, all white teeth and eye crinkles. He’s dressed in black gym shorts and a tank top, leaving his left shoulder free from constriction. Steve can tell if it’s going to be a good day by whether Bucky’s wearing a tank or t-shirt.

On the bad days, that are surprisingly few and far between at least in his office, Bucky enters in a dark, sullen silence that fills the room, and a t-shirt that Steve has to wrestle him into pinning back. On bad days, Bucky listens to Steve and does his exercises, but he doesn’t look at what was left of his arm.

Today, however, is a good day.

“Date?” Steve smiles, leaning forward to knead the tender muscle of his shoulder. Bucky grunts softly in pain, covering up the noise by clearing his throat and shooting Steve another one of his flirtatious grins.

“Yeah, you an’ me. Dinner and a movie, or we could always skip straight to the fun stuff. I’m easy.”

Steve shakes his head with a little laugh, fingers moving along the compression sock edge, rolling it down to see how he’s healing. “Think you have the wrong idea, pal.”

“One of these days I’m gonna convince you that it’s me who has the right idea.” Bucky says, just like he does every appointment.

Bucky grins with no hint of embarrassment, no blush tinting his cheeks. There are beads of sweat gathering at his temple, but it’s from the strain of Steve’s touches, knowing the stress and discomfort that follows. A little flirting is nothing in comparison.

It’s the second week of their three-appointments-per-week routine and each one has been marked with flirting, inappropriate compliments, or something hilariously lewd. Steve always laughs and Bucky always grins.

Steve smiles up at Bucky, making a show of rolling his eyes. His wound was healing well and he tells Bucky so.

“Y’think it’ll grow back, doc?” Bucky asks with wide eyes and faux hope in his voice. Steve’s laugh bursts out of him, shocked and bright.

“Oh Buck, have I told you that you’re my favorite patient.”

“Only every appointment, sweetheart.”

 

***

 

“How’s therapy going?”

Resting a very full cup of coffee on the keyboard of a laptop is dangerous but Bucky was one-handed and determined. He had experience with danger, so holding an open laptop that’s also holding coffee should be a piece of cake.

“Fuckfuckfuck,” Bucky chants under his breath with every step towards the dining room table. Hearing Becca’s tinny laugh through his laptop speakers is enough to crack him into a smile despite the fact that he’s a one-armed man holding a potential disaster in his hand.

“Hey, you try having one arm and holding a laptop AND a cup of coffee.” Bucky curses at the laptop and the grainy face on the screen.

“Why don’t you take two trips, idiot.”

“Becca, you _never_ take two trips.”

She dissolves into another fit of hysterical giggles that takes Bucky back to their youth.

“You always did love taking in the groceries for Mom. Five bags in each hand.” Bucky makes the trip back to the dining room table disaster-free thank you very much.

“Now, the goal is ten bags with _one hand_!” Bucky grins, holding up his right hand and wiggling his fingers.

It’s not the same without her there but Skype certainly makes London feel a lot closer.

“Since you’re hellbent on changing the subject, how’s _physical_ therapy going, then?” She leans in towards the webcam so all Bucky can see is one big blue eye and wiggling eyebrow. “Has Mr. Rogers said ‘Yes’ yet?”

Bucky wrinkles his nose, “Oh god, please don’t call him that.” He’d worked very hard to ignore the fact that Steve’s last name matched a certain beloved childhood figure. “And, hey, that’s Doctor Rogers to you.”

“That’s a No, then.” Becca sits back like a normal, adult human when Bucky doesn’t answer.

“It’s a ‘Not yet’.” Bucky corrects. “I’ll get there.”

He could see stacks of thick texts peeking in from the edges of the screen. Her desk was always filled with books. When she was little their spines read _Doctor Dolittle_ , _The Boxcar Children_ , and the _Harry Potter_. Now they were dense pieces of nonfiction focused on engineering. If he squinted though, he swore he could still see the tell-tale green spine of the _Half-Blood Prince_.

“Have you bothered telling him you’re serious instead of turning everything into a joke.” She raises an eyebrow so critical Bucky can feel it from across the Atlantic Ocean.

“At least it’s a funny joke.” Her eyes go wide and slightly furious, ready to let him have it. He laughs and holds up his hand in surrender. “It’s easier said than done, alright. I’m not exactly in good shape.”

“Bucky,” He hates it when she uses that tone, sad and sympathetic. Bucky wasn’t the type of person that was pitied.

 _“It’s called_ empathy, _you fucking moron_.” She had yelled at him after he snapped at her one too many times in the hospital. He deserved it, too. He had hated everyone in the hospital; his mom, his dad, the parade of doctors and nurses and specialists that poked and prodded at the stump where his arm used to be, and picked at the mess that was his brain.

He’d been blown up and put back together again and all the while he just wished that he’d been left in the sand.

Becca, thankfully, was never anything short of honest with him. Even when he was filled with tubes and covered in bruises, she helped him in a way that didn’t make him feel like he was as much of an invalid as he was. Plus, she wasn’t afraid to yell at him when he stepped a little too far, made his mother cry, or was just a general asshole. Bucky had egged her on while he was laid up, craving the fight the fire in her eyes brought. He’d rather fight than be fawned over and as well as the two of them got along, man, could they fight.

God, he missed her.

“It’s getting better. Honest. It’s...there are more good days now.” He smiles at her unconvinced expression. The last thing she needed was to be worried about her fucked up brother overseas. She had nearly delayed her degree because of his injury. Bucky will never forget his first conscious memory once he woke up, the expression on her face when she saw him. Through the foggy haze of his brain, that’s when he truly realized how serious this was. That was also the day he was essentially told his military career was probably over.

That hadn’t been a good day.

“Things are better.” Bucky repeats, shaking off his memories of the hospital, the feign smell of disinfectant still stuck in his nose, the echoes of stretcher wheels and overhead pages ringing in his ears.

Becca gives him a look that resembles their mother so much it actually makes Bucky sit up straighter.

“Becca, things are good, I promise.” She stares at him, unwavering until Bucky crosses his eyes at her.

“Okay, I believe you.” She laughs, “You better tell me if things aren’t going well.”

“I promise, Bec.”

Their conversation dissolves into Becca’s latest television obsession as it always does and Bucky listens happily as she sings Bill Hader’s praises.

He loves their daily Skype chats. They’ve always been close but with Bucky overseas and Becca busy completing her degree while also preparing to start her next one, it was hard finding time to catch up. If getting blown to hell was good for anything, it was nice to have daily chats with his little sister.

He knew she worried about him. Everyone worried about him.

When he was released from the hospital he didn’t exactly have an apartment to go home to, so he went back to his parent’s Park Slope home. Stepping back into his childhood bedroom, battle worn and weary, was a sobering experience he didn’t care to revisit. It was like stepping into a time machine, so close to his teenage-self he could almost convince himself that he could set that naive kid on a different path if he tried hard enough.

It didn’t help that the room was also frozen in 2003, adding another layer of surreal to the whole experience. In all the years since he moved out, his mother did nothing more than dust, wash his unused comforter, and take over his bookshelf, Nora Roberts novels stuffed in between Douglas Adams and Frank Herbert.

He hadn’t been at home for more than a week since he moved out at eighteen, bright-eyed and eager for his life to finally start. Now, he was back in his bedroom, in his thirties, with everything he owned in two duffle bags.

More than the room and home itself was his parents tiptoeing around him. His mother watched him like a hawk and his father, bless him, attempted to inconspicuously follow him from room to room and work it into whatever he was doing at the time. George Barnes was many things, but subtle was not one of them.

In truth, he couldn’t blame them. Bucky knew he was loved. Take that love and sprinkle in a life-changing injury and dash of PTSD, and that made great parents go a little mad with worry.

Bucky hadn’t been so accommodating in the beginning. He’d just wanted to be left the fuck alone. He snapped at them for helping with even the most minute things. They tried, of course they did, but little could be done to mend the broken fragments of his brain.

At night, he couldn’t stop himself from screaming. During the day, he refused to speak at all.

After a while, even fighting became too exhausting, especially when he really did want to be hugged by his mother and comforted by his father. So they came to a truce and he dug himself into a routine. It didn’t do much to help the war raging in his head but it calmed his parents and gave him something to do. He made his appointments, went to most of his therapy appointments, did the bloodwork and checkups. It wasn’t fun but it was progress, however meaningless it felt.

Not every appointment was a drag, though. Physical therapy quickly became the highlight of his week. Despite the pain, stress, and pure exhaustion of every appointment, for three glorious times a week he was able to sit in close proximity to the kind and sarcastic Steve Rogers.

Bucky wasn’t a fool, he knew that his physical therapist had a lot to do with his brighter mood. His therapist didn’t want him to attribute his recovery to a person but, fuck, it was hard not to notice how those broad shoulders made Bucky feel a little lighter. He was only human, after all, and seeing that gorgeous face a few times a week was doing wonders to his psyche.

After the surgery and initial shock, doctor after doctor started discussing what was going to happen after. As if Bucky had an “After”. He’d lost his career, his friends, his fucking arm. As far as Bucky was concerned, this was It.

But his father’s pleading eyes, mother’s hand in his, sister’s firm kick in the ass, and his newfound love of routine drove him to the mandatory therapists, psychiatrists, and physical therapy appointments with less of a scowl than he would have liked.

Out of every appointment and follow through, physical therapy is what made Bucky’s palms sweat the most. He was no stranger to pain but losing an arm was a new kind of pain he didn’t know how to deal with yet. He’d been scraped up, shot (twice), stabbed (once), and while those had been painful there had been a logic to them, a tangibility.

Losing his arm was a deep, painful ache that extended to flesh that wasn’t even there. Bucky had experienced many things but the phantom pain has been one of the worst. He could feel the fingers on his left hand burning, _burning_ , when they weren’t even there. It had lasted days and every so often there was still a slight, fiery pang.

The idea of someone poking him where he was most vulnerable was horrific.

It was essential though, so he started as quickly. Rip off the band-aid. That and the promise of a prosthetic pushed him out of his parent’s home and out the door.

Park Sports Physical Therapy was a surprisingly bustling operation. There were rows of ellipticals and treadmills, every other one with some unique gadget that must assist with lower body injuries. It was bright and homey with polished hardwood floors and exposed brick, feeling more like a gym and less like the doctor’s office he’d been expecting. The interior alone was enough to release some of the tension in his shoulders.

He filled out the thick stack of paperwork with his still shaky right hand and didn’t have to wait long before he was approached back by a young woman with one headphone in. “Welcome to Park Sports. What’s got 9 arms and sucks?” Bucky blinks at her, shrugging his shoulders.

“Def Leppard.”

It was so inappropriate it should have infuriated him. It elated him.

His shocked laugh came out as more of a strangled gasp and he suddenly realized it was the first time he’s laughed in weeks.

“Oh good, you have a sense of humor. I’ve gotten three verbal warnings this week.” She grinned, not bothering to introduce herself, just tapping a manicured fingernail to the name tag that read “Darcy” in cute bubble letters.

“If that’s how you’re greeting amputees you should probably be fired.” Thankfully she laughed and shrugged.

“Steve’s got a soft spot for me so, for now, I can still pay rent.”

Bucky decided that she wasn’t half bad. She discussed a little of what he could expect in the next few weeks and a general overview of what his appointments would consist of while she led him past the gym area and into a corridor with private workrooms.

“Oh shi-sugar,” The poorly covered up curse made Bucky smile. “Sorry, looks like he’s still with someone. I’m sorry.” The front door jingles and a high-pitched “Darcy!” rings from the front of the facility. Before the distressed look on her face can get any worse Bucky smiles and nods to the front.

“Go ahead. I’m a big boy, I can wait by myself.” All of her breath leaves her in a woosh.

“You’re the best, James.” She salutes him and takes off down the hall.

Bucky rocks back on his heels, half-heartedly considering slipping out of the building when he catches a glimpse through the slightly open door.

The man, who Bucky assumed was the physical therapist, was kneeling in front of the patient, listening with a devoted attention that Bucky rarely saw.

The physical therapist’s dark slacks were stretched over his thighs, forearms resting on his knees as he crouched. His blonde hair was parted and clean cut, a pale blue shirt stretched across his chest, and an All-American charm about him. Bucky couldn’t see much of his face but he had one hell of a jawline. The man was listening intently to whatever the other man was saying, nodding every now and then. It was such a quiet, genuine moment laden with concern and compassion. He radiated a warmth that Bucky could feel from the hallway.

Darcy was back quicker than Bucky would have liked, interrupting his one-man staring contest, and pushing the door open. She says something that Bucky doesn’t quite catch because this guy’s full face was devastating. He stood to his full height, broad shoulders and narrow waist making Bucky go weak in the knees.

“...James Barnes.” Bucky blinks, realizing that he was being introduced.

The man hits him a grin that knocks Bucky in the chest. “Nice to meet you, James. I’m Steve and I’ll be working with you for the next few months.”

“Bucky.”

“Pardon?”

“All my friends call me Bucky.” Bucky smiles, holding out his right hand. “Heard you’re gonna push me past my limits?” He winks, confidence he thought he’d lost bubbling up inside him.

Steve laughs. He _laughs_ and Bucky’s gone on him so quickly.

“Trust me, it’s nothing you can’t handle.”

“You sure?” Bucky grins, Steve’s hand shaking his. His hands are soft and warm, palm slightly sweaty.

“Oh, I’m sure.”


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gorgeous art done by [Izulkowa](http://izulkowa.tumblr.com)!

“I’m going to marry you one day.”

It’s been a long session. Bucky’s t-shirt is drenched with sweat and he’s still sitting on the mat, leaning against the wall to catch his breath. They’ve been working on his upper body strength for the past few sessions and while Bucky’s getting some of his muscle back, it’s a long, difficult road.

“Excuse me?” Steve blinks, washing his hands in the sink at the corner of the room. He’s unfazed at Bucky’s advancements at this point. Every appointment comes with some charming comment that, if Steve’s being honest, make his entire day.

Still, a proposal? That was new.

“I’m going to marry you.” Bucky repeats with a soft smile. He’s staring at Steve with his kind, bright eyes and Steve is struck for a moment. He waits for Bucky’s smile to take a turn towards the cheesy, the ridiculous, but it stays steady and soft. It brings an unnecessary flush to Steve’s cheeks, face going hot.

“Jeez, relax Steve, I’m not asking you now.” Bucky laughs, head tilting back against the wall. It’s a small movement that makes him look so young. “I’m just giving you a head’s up, I’m going to marry you someday. You’re the love of my life.”

“Oh god, now you’re laying it on thick.” Steve chuckles, Bucky’s smile widens the more Steve laughs. Steve is enamored with Bucky’s honesty. He’s never anything less than himself and it floors Steve how someone who can go through so much can still keep so much of himself. It’s incredibly humbling. If anything, Steve’s honored to get the brunt of Bucky’s attention and joking attraction, if only for a few hours every week.

He’s not immune to the attention of a gorgeous man, even if it’s inappropriate. Steve smiles the entire way home after his appointments with Bucky. It’s one of the reasons he schedules their appointment at the end of the day. It’s easier to sneak in a few extra minutes with his favorite patient.

Their professional barrier, though, was being battered with every appointment. It was riddled with holes and thin but Steve was still trying to keep it from crumbling. At least until his professional time with Bucky was over.

“I’m serious!” Bucky protests, “I’m marrying you. Gonna lock that ass on down.”

Steve laughs harder, chuckling around a shocked, “ _Jesus_ ”.

“I bet you say that to all the boys.” Steve grins, drying his hands, cheeks still unnecessarily hot. He wills his cheeks to stop burning. Fuck him and his pale Irish skin for being so easily flushed.

“Oh my god, look how red you are!”

“Shut up. This isn’t professional.”

“Who says I have to be professional. I’m the patient, Steve.” Bucky grins, groaning as he finally gets off the floor, swaying slightly, off balance. Steve is in front of him in an instant, hands on his shoulders to steady him.

“I’m _fine_.” Bucky bites, face clouding over. He breathes hard between clenched teeth and closes his eyes, “Sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize.”

And yet, he always does.

Officially, Steve is always given a brief of the patient’s injury and history prior to the initial appointment. Unofficially, he’s not immune to the office gossip that circulated through word of mouth and “courtesy texts”. He’s gotten a few in his day from friends in the field, but he can’t remember the last time he’s been so warned about a patient before Bucky.

Doctors and nurses gave Steve a head’s up about James Barnes’ anger and unwillingness to work towards his recovery. They’d told Steve the nasty things he said to nurses, the silent treatment he gave his doctors, the days where he refused to make eye contact. It was hard to associate those warnings with the man in front of him.

Bucky had bad days, but he had never lashed out at Steve, not even when the exercises pushed him to the point of tears. He raised his voice sometimes, or he’d be unintentionally curt, but it was always followed by an immediate apology. An apology that was neither warranted nor necessary.

Week after week, appointment after appointment, Steve marveled at Bucky’s strength, his sheer will. He met each obstacle head-on, gave every exercise his all. Steve watched him battle his own limitations and come out the other side stronger and a little sweatier. He laughed easily and smiled often. Steve always looked forward to his appointments with this enigmatic force of nature.

“Bucky, you have nothing to apologize for.” Steve tells him now, placing his hand on Bucky’s right shoulder. He knew to avoid his left shoulder once the appointment was over. “Nothing at all. You’re doing so well and I’m so proud of you.”

His lungs swell in his chest when Bucky leans forward, forehead resting against his chest. He stays there for a moment, thin breaths coming faster and faster.

“Buck?”

Bucky makes a small noise that’s gone before Steve can decipher it, and Bucky wraps his right arm around Steve’s waist and squeezes.

Steve’s a tactile person, he’s hugged his patients before, hell, he’s hugged Bucky before, but this felt different. Everything suddenly shifted, a puzzle piece in Steve’s chest slotting into place. Bucky holds him tightly, clutching his shirt in his fist, breathing heavily. He’s pressed so tight against his chest like if he tries hard enough he can sink right in.

Steve ignores the professional portion of his brain and listens to the violent beats of his heart, wrapping his arms around Bucky and holding him tightly. Bucky’s not a small man but tucked under Steve’s chin and pressed so tightly against him he’s half his size.

“Thank you, Steve.” Bucky’s voice is thick. It makes Steve’s eyes go hot and he holds him tighter, ignoring their crumbling professional barrier.

“I’ve got you, Bucky.”

 

***

 

“I _hate_ my Occupational Therapist.”

It’s a rainy Saturday afternoon when Steve answers his cell phone. He’s lounging on his sofa with his laptop, attempting to do some work but more invested in the Parks and Recreation marathon playing on his tv.

He doesn’t recognize the number, but it wasn’t out of the ordinary for an unfamiliar number to pop across his screen. Doctors and nurses often called him with questions, concerns, or to vent to a willing ear. To be fair he wasn’t necessarily willing, but a lot of people tended to look at him and unload all of their personal and professional woes on him. His mother would say it was because he had kind eyes. Steve thought it was because he was a sucker for his coworkers.

What was unusual, however, was getting a call of complaint. From a patient.

“Bucky?”

“Of course, it’s Bucky. Don’t you have my number saved? I’ve given it to you a dozen times at least.” Bucky had the audacity to actually sigh.

“I don’t usually save patient’s numbers on my personal cell—Wait!” Steve pulls the phone away from his ear and makes a face at it, as if the phone had programmed Bucky’s phone without his knowledge. “How did you get my personal cell number?”

“Doesn’t matter. There are more important things at hand like my Occupational Therapist and how _awful_ he is, seriously.”

“It does matter.” Steve mumbles, tucking the phone between his ear and shoulder so he can open up his email. “Besides, I thought you and Dr. Lang would get along. You’re both sarcastic and a pain in my ass.”

Bucky sighs dramatically.

“What’s he doing?” Steve asks, sitting up a little straighter. Bucky was dramatic but he didn’t want to brush it off if there was an actual issue. Bucky’s wellbeing was too important for Steve to gloss over. He preemptively opens a new email and addresses it to Scott, ready to ream him at the first mention of trouble.

“He’s too personal.”

Steve laughs, “Bucky, he’s an Occupational Therapist. It’s his job to get personal. Do you have an actual complaint, or did you just want to bother me on my day off.”

“So, you DO have Saturdays off!”

Steve laughs so hard he nearly knocks the laptop off his lap.

“Is that why you actually called me? To see if I had Saturdays off? You’re fucking unbelievable, y’know that.”

“I like to think ‘persistent’. And, whoa, Steve, cursing? Is this what you’re really like out of the office?”

Steve grins, closing his laptop and setting it on the coffee table.

“Seriously, how did you get my phone number? Who did you charm into releasing my personal information?” He stretches across the couch. “It was Darcy, wasn’t it? I really need to fire her.”

“You think I’m charming?”

Steve grins stupidly at the ceiling, shaking his head. “I think you’re ridiculous.”

Bucky’s laugh sends a delightful shiver down Steve’s spine.

“I’m bored. My sister’s too busy to Skype so you’re my only option. Help me, Steve Rogers, you’re my only hope.”

“Go outside. Go for a walk. Do some of those exercises I showed you.” Bucky groans after each suggestion.

“Steve, it’s _Saturday_. Saturdays are for fun things.” The fact that Bucky’s idea of Saturday fun meant skyping his sister makes something warm run through his chest.

“Where’s your sister that you need to Skype?” Steve bites, eager to get to know another piece of Bucky Barnes.

“London,” Bucky says and Steve can hear the smile in his voice. “She’s the brains of the family. Out there getting her Masters degree while I’m stuck at my parents' house wasting away from boredom and looking for jobs that will take a one-armed basket case.”

“Don’t talk about yourself like that.” Steve frowns. “You’re doing great, even if you are a little infuriating. What kind of jobs are you looking for?”

Bucky goes quieter, his voice losing some of its confidence. “I don't know. I joined the Army right after high school. Didn’t go to college. I’m actually thinking about going back to get my degree.” He says, voice tainted with uncertainty.

“Bucky, that’s great!” Steve smiles, chest filling with pride he doesn’t have any right to feel.

“Yeah? Maybe it’s stupid...I don’t know. I was never good in school.”

“Bucky, a lot has changed. You’re not the same person you were when you were 18. You can do anything you set your mind to.”

“Gee, thanks, Ma.”

“Anytime, sweetheart.” Steve has only a second to think that maybe he’s crossed a line, but Bucky surprises him again.

“Thanks, doll.” Steve groans.

“Oh my god, do not call me that. Ever again.” Bucky laughs, delighted with Steve’s reaction.

“What’s wrong, Stevie? Don’t like pet names?”

Steve rolls his eyes, tucking the phone between his ear and shoulder and stretching out on the couch. “I have no problem with pet names, there’s just a very short list of what I’ll accept?”

“Oh really!” Foot, meet mouth.

“Bucky, don’t even think about-.” Steve starts but the damage has already been done.

“Baby?” Truth be told, he’s actually never liked being called “baby” but hearing it in Bucky’s low voice makes his stomach unexpectedly tighten. A thick, heat uncurling low in his belly. Steve stretches out on the couch, sinking deeper into the cushions, body moving to chase the heat running through his veins.

“Bucky, stop.” Bucky’s deep laugh does nothing to slow the syrupy heat coursing through him.

“Well, you called me ‘Sweetheart’ so odds are, you like being called that too. Hon’?” Steve did like “sweetheart”. No way he was admitting that through a phone call, though.

“No. What’s the point of shortening an endearment?”

“Ooh, so do you like Honey?”

“Buck, I’m not going through every pet name in existence just so you can determine which I’m fine with. That’s just lazy on your part.”

“Hm, that’s true. You’re worth the work. Guess I’ll just have to use them and see which ones get you hot and bothered.”

Steve rolls his eyes at the ceiling. “Guess so.”

“So, you don’t mind-. Oh, my sister’s calling! Mind if I let you go?” The excitement in Bucky’s voice is infectious, but Steve is a little disappointed their unexpected phone call is being cut so short.

“Get out of here Bucky and talk to your sister.” Steve smiles. “I’ll see you on Monday.”

“Bye, sweetheart! And, hey, save my number!”

Steve saves his number.


	3. Chapter Three

Some mornings Bucky wakes up and doesn’t feel real.

Most mornings Bucky wakes up and feels everything. Those mornings he doesn’t get up. He lays in sheets soaked with his own sweat and longs to dissociate. He feels the weight crushing his chest, his heart pumping out of desperation, gasping for breath as he fades away. But he never fades entirely, it never ends and it would never end. Most mornings Bucky thinks about doing something about that but every time he does he imagines being found. He couldn’t destroy his parents like that, not after everything they’ve done.

Bucky recognizes all the professional terms for his spiral it but it’s so much easier to lay there and feel it. Every crushing moment of it. It’s what he deserves after leaving bits of Jim spread across the sand. His chest wide open and empty. He didn’t even get the chance to pick up the pieces and send them back in a box covered with the flag.

Why should Bucky get to roll out of bed and hug his mother and talk to his father when Jim would never be able to do any of those things.

He’ll never get to hug his mother again. He’ll never get to fix up that old car he’d been eyeing and surprise his father. He’ll never see his sister grow up and start college. He’ll never eat or sleep or fight or fuck or cry or laugh again because Bucky got him blown to bits. He’d desecrated Jim Morita and had his blood blown into his mouth, he’d tasted everything he’d never be again.

Bucky was the one that was sent back with one less arm and a lot less sanity.

“James?” Bucky opens his eyes and stares at the popcorn ceiling of his childhood bedroom, feeling the beginning of a hysterical laugh bubbling in his throat. The knock on his door could not have been more aptly timed. “Are you up?”

“Yeah, I’m up, Ma.” Bucky rolls out of his bed because if there’s one thing he could do to honor Jim’s memory it’s to not upset his mother. His mother’s footsteps retreat down the hall as he stuffs his sheets into the laundry bag.

They have a system of sorts. Bucky has breakdowns quietly in his bedroom, wakes up screaming, and heads to the basement to wash the sweat and invisible sand from his sheets. After one particularly bad night, they had to have a stilted, uncomfortable conversation. They promised not to come in and he didn’t have to worry about pulling a gun on them again.

So another truce was made. He locked his door and always answered when his mom knocked to make sure he was safe.

One day, Bucky thinks as he throws his sheets into the washer, he was going to thank them with something incredible. Bless ‘em, they really handled having a war-torn son in stride.

“What the fuck is muesli?” Bucky asks later, rummaging through the pantry for something to mask the copper taste that had been in his mouth ever since he woke up.

“James, please don’t curse.” His mother half-heartedly chides while his father grunts in passive solidarity. “It’s healthy.”

Bucky wrinkles his nose but pulls the box out, filling one of the crappy, glossy bowls Becca made in her tenth-grade pottery class.

There were pieces of Bucky and Becca in every corner of the Barnes home. A framed photo of Bucky in his uniform hung in the hallway beside Becca’s grad photo. Photos of them as children covered the hallways, the fridge, and every holiday, their elementary school crafts came out and were hung with care. Turkeys made from their small hands, lopsided stuffing-filled sock snowmen, orange painted paper plate pumpkins. Every garbage craft they ever brought home was tucked somewhere in the house with a reverence that it probably didn’t deserve.

Bucky and Becca teased their parents every year for it, pointing out each other’s crappy childhood drawings and comparing their art skills at every age.

Even now, as Bucky ate a bowl of muesli at the dining room table he was staring at a tiny vase filled with spring tulips made from green pipe cleaners and colored tissue paper. Bucky smiles at Becca’s name written sloppily on one of the paper petals.

There’s a knock on the door which isn’t totally uncommon but still manages to make him tense. Winifred and George are hits with the neighbors and there’s usually someone stopping by to say hello or, since the accident, bring an aluminum pan of food.

It wasn’t entirely unwelcome. Bucky knew it was just their awkward neighborly way of showing concern. If he hadn’t come home at all there’d be more of a routine to it: flowers, sympathy cards, “sorry for your loss”es. But Bucky had come back as half a person and there really wasn’t neighborhood protocol for an amputee with PTSD.

So, they usually brought macaroni and cheese instead.

_(But Bucky swears if Mrs. Perez was bringing over another green bean casserole instead of the tamales he knows she gives Becca when she’s home, he was going to go over there and have some stern words with her.)_

“Oh!” His mom sounds delightfully surprised, “James, someone’s here to see you.”

Bucky looks down at himself; jeans, t-shirt, trembling right hand, acceptable. He scrubs his shaking hand through his hair and tries to make himself presentable for the neighbors.

But it wasn’t a kind-hearted neighbor with a tray of food. It was so much better than that.

“Nat,” Bucky barrels past his mother, pulling Natasha in close with and squeezing her tight. She hugs him back just as fiercely, laughing softly in his ear, and it’s so good to have her back in his arms that hot tears prick at the corner of his eyes.

“You didn’t think I would miss your birthday, did you?” She says in a suspiciously thick voice. Bucky laughs, hugging her just a little bit tighter.

 

***

 

“Where have you been?”

It was surreal having Natasha in his childhood bedroom, looking through his high school yearbook.

“Chechnya.” She says simply.

She grins wide and goofy, holding up the yearbook and pointing to Bucky in all his eleventh-grade glory. “Nice Misfits t-shirt.” She grins, recognizing the same t-shirt from most of the old photos in the hall. Truth be told, Bucky still had that shirt. Nostalgia wasn’t entirely lost on him.

“Don’t shame me for being seventeen.” Bucky grins. “It’s so good to see you.”

Natasha smiles, closing the yearbook and tucking it back into the bookshelf.

“It’s good to see you too.” She sits next to him on the bed, leaning over and kissing his cheek. “I’m sorry it’s taken me this long to come by.”

Bucky shakes his head. “Don’t. Don’t be. I’m glad you’re here now.”

Natasha grins, reaching down and lacing her fingers with his.

“Do you want to go for a walk?”

God, she’s brilliant. Bucky nods, throat tight.

Bucky has never connected with anyone the way he has with Natasha. From the moment they met during training exercises in Fort Bragg, they clicked on an almost atomic level. They were able to read and anticipate each other’s movements during their training, feeding off one another and eventually pissing off everyone because they absolutely dominated. They traded numbers and started seeing each other off the base. Everyone assumed they were hooking up when in reality she had just quickly, almost instantly, became Bucky’s best friend.

He still wasn’t entirely sure what she did but it was something highly secretive, spy shit. Bucky knew when to stop pressing.

They kept in touch over the years, seeing each other more and more in recent years now that she was seeing someone who blessedly lived in Bed-Stuy. He’d met Clint a few times and they became a rag-tag trio whenever they were all in town.

Bucky’s mom had been the one to call Natasha and tell her what happened. She’d been in the middle of a mission, which wasn’t unusual, but she was here now and Bucky couldn’t be happier.

It was early March and the frigid air was finally beginning to thin out and make way for warmer temperatures. Bucky breathes in the fresh air, content for the moment. He takes a second to reflect on the day he’d imagined he’d have when he woke up that morning. How wonderfully different it had turned out to be.

The two of them grab coffee and make their way to Prospect Park, walking in a comfortable silence.

“How’s Clint?” Bucky asks softly, sipping his hot coffee and letting the warmth soak through him.

Natasha sighs happily, “He’s an idiot. Still intact. He got a dog, can you believe that?”

“I really can’t.” Bucky laughs, listening as Natasha launches into a story about Clint and his new mangy-sounding dog. He’s laughing openly by the time they get to the park and find an empty bench. It’s cold enough that there aren’t many people milling around the park, save for a few runners, and mothers pushing strollers.

“How’s your super secret spy job?” Bucky needles.

Natasha grins. “Still super secret.”

Bucky smiles, “Any chance you guys are hiring one-armed sharpshooters?”

Natasha snorts when she laughs. It’s lovely.

“Fuck, I miss it.” Bucky breathes, leaning back on the bench. “Is that fucked up?”

“No,” Natasha shakes her head. “Not at all.”

A comfortable silence stretches between them, more weighted on Natasha’s side then Bucky’s.

“You look good, Bucky.”

Bucky laughs. “Thanks. I feel like shit, but it’s nice to know my good looks haven’t taken a hit.”

“They haven’t. You’re just as gorgeous as ever.” Natasha smiles, reaching up and pushing his hair behind his ear.

“So, you feel like shit, huh?” She says, stretching her legs out and leaning back casually.

“Subtle.” Bucky grins, mirroring her movement. “Good segue into the Feelings Talk.”

He’s not bothered by it, he finds. When his parents try to steer the conversation towards his recovery, Bucky feels trapped, cornered. Even his therapists make him uneasy with their stares and expectations. But with Natasha, on a cold March morning, Bucky doesn’t feel like being anything but honest.

“I’ve never been subtle but thank you for thinking so.” Natasha smiles, pressing the cup to her lips and taking an inconspicuous sip.

Bucky listens to the quiet sips of her coffee, the whisper of the cardboard coffee sleeve as she places the cup beside her on the bench.

“I’m good. Better than before, honestly. I wasn’t in a good place after I woke up. Obviously. Still going through some shit and most likely will always go through it, but it’s good. Things are good.”

Natasha lifts her coffee cup back up to her lips and somehow takes a sip with her pursed lips.

“What? I’m serious! I’m good. Everything’s gravy.”

“You’re making light of it.” She doesn’t ask, she tells.

“Of fucking course I am. What am I going to do if I can’t laugh about it?”

“Laughing about it is fine, encouraged even. What worries me is that you’re hiding behind that gorgeous smile of yours and that’s the extent of your progress.”

“Fuck you.” It’s out of his mouth before he can stop it. “Sorry-I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”

“Yes, you did.” Natasha smiles softly. “That’s okay.”

She reaches out and takes Bucky’s hand in hers, squeezing tight.

“I’m just so...I’m so fucking angry all the time. I wish I was empty but I have all of this shit inside me and sometimes I can still taste his blood in my mouth.” Bucky chokes on words that haven’t made it past his lips until this moment. They drip and ache, but now that the vault’s opened, he can’t stop them.

“Everyone tells me it’s a miracle that I’m here at all but I didn’t ask for a miracle, I didn’t want this. If this is your idea of a miracle then I don’t want it, I don’t want it and I know I’m so fucking selfish for not wanting it, but sometimes I want to waste it.”

Natasha’s unwavering beside him.

“I feel raw all the time, like I’m still cut open. I don’t know.” Bucky laughs, scrubbing his hand over his face. “Jesus, sorry.”

“How do you feel now that you’ve said that out loud to another human face?” Natasha smiles softly, bringing her coffee cup to her lips.

“I don’t know. Shitty?” Bucky shrugs.

“Bucky,” Natasha puts down her coffee so this Serious. “You need to quit using yourself as a therapist. You’re a shitty one. If you had a profile on Psychology Today I’d give you a terrible review. You tell yourself mean stories because you’re on loop in your own head.”

“I have a therapist.” Bucky placates weakly.

“Then you need to start talking to them or get a new one. Therapy is what you put into it.”

Bucky rolls his eyes, cracking into a smile without realizing it. “You read that on a website.”

“Bucky _everyone_ read that on a website, doesn’t make it any less true.”

Bucky falls into a silence.

“Look, you have a coffee, a roof over your head, and from what I hear a smokin’ hot physical therapist whose ass you get to look at two-”

“Three.” Bucky quickly corrects.

“Three times a week. You don’t have to feel guilty for living.”

Bucky nods, “Easier said than done. But, you’re right. I’m not...I haven’t really opened up since, y’know, this.” He admits. “And how do you know about Steve?”

“Oh, so it’s ‘Steve’, is it. Bucky, you’re not the only one that has your sister’s email address.”

“I don’t know how I feel about the two of you talking.” Bucky mumbles, digging the toe of his sneaker into the dead grass.

The silence in the park is deafening, a cold, almost rhythmic pulse of Quiet. Bucky lets each pulse run through his chest, focus on the whispers of the leaves along the dead grass, Nat’s quiet breaths beside him.

“My life’s not my own anymore.” Bucky says after a while. “Jim—.” His voice fails him before he can finish his thought. He bites his lip, blinking his full eyes up at the sky, willing his tears to sink back into his body.

“His weight is not your own.” Natasha starts.

“Of fucking course it is.” Bucky bites, turning sharply towards her, his coffee splashing and running rivulets down his fingers. “It is. That’s the price of it and it’s…it’s a more than worthy penance. It’s just...heavy.”

The silence between them stretches miles wide, Bucky’s shoulders curling in, the coffee cooling on his fingers.

“I’m sorry. That was insensitive of me.” Natasha apologizes, eyes burning holes into the side of his face. Bucky’s eyes fall closed, a soft smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. Natasha was quick to steamroll, a barrel of a woman that could flatten you, but she was so annoyingly honest. When she was wrong she admitted it immediately. She was so steady, even her apology felt like an expertly shot arrow.

A chuckle starts in his sternum, bubbling out more and more until they’re both laughing like lunatics in a near-empty park on a cold day.

“For the record, you’re not a good therapist either.” Bucky grins, wiping tears from his cheeks.

“Of course I’m not. I’m your friend.” Natasha smiles, her cheeks flushed red, hair a little mussed.

“How long are you in town for?” Bucky asks the question he’s been dreading, knowing however long she says won’t be nearly long enough.

“A week. But I won’t miss your birthday. So, you, mister, need to have a proper party. Let’s get a drink somewhere and celebrate this Friday.”

A couple months ago, the idea of getting drinks at a bar would be akin to being blown up all over again. It would be unthinkable. But with Natasha’s excited smile and the promise of Clint joining them, possibly his new mangy dog, it was starting to look more like a privilege.

“Well, twist my arm, why don’t you.”


	4. Chapter Four

Steve slaps Bucky on the shoulder, giving him an encouraging smile. Working with a prosthetic for the first time wasn’t easy. It was awkward and clunky and brought up painful realities. Bucky had been fitted weeks ago but today had been his first full session with the prosthetic.

“You are incredible!” Steve beams, proud and out of breath with it. “I was concerned. This is a big step, one that many people don’t do well with but of course you welcome it with open arms. Well, arm.”

Bucky’s laugh is enough to keep Steve from worrying that he’d offended him. Over the past couple of months, Steve’s tongue has gotten a little too loose. More often than not an off-color joke wormed its way into every appointment. Steve would be worried if they didn’t make Bucky laugh every time.

“Go out with me tonight.” Bucky grins.

“Bucky…” Steve sighs, shaking his head with a smile. They still couldn’t get through an appointment without Bucky asking him out on a date.

“Not like that! Although, if you wanted…”

“Bucky!”

Bucky laughs, holding up his hand in defense. “Alright, alright!”

Steve shakes his head with mock exasperation. He’s packing away the equipment and prosthetic when Bucky speaks again, voice softer than it was earlier.

“Seriously though, go out with me tonight. Me and a couple of friends are going to get a drink in Park Slope tonight. No ragers, I promise.” He beams. “You’re more than welcome to invite anyone you want.”

“What’s the occasion?” Steve asks, gulping down some water and turning back towards Bucky who was still smiling softly. He looked shy, shoulders curled in slightly. It was unusual from someone who filled up a room all on his own.

“It’s my birthday.”

Steve’s eyes widen and he chokes on his water. Bucky’s birthday? Birthdays were important. Steve should have known, he had his medical file after all. His guilt must be painted all over his face because Bucky laughs immediately.

“Relax, I didn’t tell you to guilt trip you. It’s not a big deal, just an excuse to go out, get a drink, and hang out with my friends.”

“And...I’m your friend?” Steve asks, completely blindsided by Bucky Barnes once more.

Bucky’s expression softens.

“Steve,” He breathes, “Of course you are.”

Steve swallows hard, plastic bottle crinkling in his fist as he worries at the cap.

“Okay,”

Bucky’s entire face lights up, a wide smile spreading across his face.

“Really?” And he sounds so hopeful that Steve feels the vice in his chest tighten even more.

“Sure. What time?”

He’s never seen Bucky flustered before but this must be the closest thing to it. His cheeks go a little pink and he digs into his pocket to grab his phone.

“Yeah, okay, yeah, uh, I can text you the details.”

Steve preens. “Are you flustered?”

The indignant look on Bucky’s face is worth it.

“How dare you, I’m a veteran.”

“A veteran that’s blushing ‘cause his physical therapist agreed to go to his birthday party.”

That blush deepens.

“Fuck you, you’re uninvited.” Steve laughs and goes back to packing up the equipment.

“Fine, I guess you just won’t get a birthday present then.” There’s a very predictable silence that Steve bathes in.

“You’d get me a present?”

“Guess you’ll never find out.”

“High Dive.” Bucky blurts out, eyes narrowed at Steve. “At 9pm. You better bring me a present.”

 

***

 

Steve wasn’t totally kidding about the present. A few weeks back he saw a little something in a store that had him cracking up, thinking of Bucky instantly, and bought it. It has been sitting on his dining room table since. He quickly realized after he bought it that it was strange, maybe too silly, and he had no real reason to give it to him. Well, now he had a reason.

With the small gift wrapped box in hand, he bounced his leg nervously, going between sitting on his couch, standing in the kitchen with no clear reason, and then back to the couch. He could talk a big game, but truthfully, he was fucking _nervous_.

Sam had said yes to the invite almost immediately, eager to meet this Pain-In-The-Ass patient that had Steve starry-eyed. But now it was 8:10 and he was late and the bar was twenty minutes away which meant Steve’s very important window of “We have plenty of time!” was getting narrower and his nerves were skyrocketing.

Steve was very much raised under the “If you’re on time, you’re late” notion while Sam was very much raised with “We didn’t actually think you’d show up.”

Steve launches for the buzzer when it rings, letting Sam in with the press of a button.

“You’re late.” He says in lieu of a greeting. Sam laughs, slapping Steve’s shoulder. “Damn, kid, you look...stressed.”

“I’m not stressed, I just don’t want to be late.”

“Steve, we have plenty of time. You don’t have to be nervous.”

“I’m not-!” Steve stops himself, hearing the sheer volume of his own voice. “I’m a little nervous. I’m not entirely sure why.”

Sam levels him with a look that says _You definitely know why_ and makes himself at home, beelining towards Steve’s bar and grabbing the bottle of Jameson that has been living there in preparation for St. Patrick’s Day.

“No,” Steve chides but his heart’s not really in it.

“Yes.” Sam grins as he pours both of them a shot. “Here’s to Steve Rogers and his beau.” Steve laughs, shaking his head as he holds the shot glass up and clinks with Sam.

“Wildly inappropriate.” He mumbles before shooting the alcohol back.

“Besides,” Sam makes a face as the alcohol goes down. “How many more appointments?”

“Four.”

“Godspeed, my friend.”

Steve laughs. He was going to need it.

 

***

 

It occurred to Bucky later that he didn’t actually know if Steve had a partner. Steve didn’t seem like the type of person to conveniently leave out the fact that he was in a committed relationship and let Bucky shamelessly flirt with him a few times a week but, still, stranger things have happened.

Bucky picks absentmindedly at the soggy beer bottle label, peeling it back and eventually off.

“What’s got you so fidgety?” Clint drops into the seat beside him, beer sloshing a little down his shirt. He didn’t end up bringing Lucky, his dog, much to Bucky’s disappointment, but Clint was a lovable bastard regardless.

“Nothin’.” Bucky shakes his head, leaning back in the booth. “It’s been a while, I guess. Since I’ve been out.”

Clint nods, lifting his glass in cheers before taking a sip. “They have an awesome outdoor area if you want to go sit? It’s pretty quiet. It’s one of the reasons I recommended this place.”

Bucky usually preferred to have doors and windows in sight, but it was a beautiful night, and he was pretty sure the backdoor area had high walls and only one door that he had to worry about. He shoots Clint a grateful grin, setting his now empty beer bottle on the bar and follows him back.

“Where the hell is Natasha anyway?” Bucky asks. Clint turns before they get outside and smiles wide, eyes crinkling at the corners, and more beer sloshes from his glass.

“Surprise!” He whisper-screams and opens the back door. Bucky frowns and pokes his head outside to see Natasha, beer in hand, lounging beside-.

“Heya, Barnes!”

Bucky bounds down the stairs so fast he’s momentarily worried he’ll trip and lose his other arm in the process.

“What are you doing here?” Bucky’s grin nearly splits his entire face, wrapping his arm around Dum Dum Dugan’s broad fucking shoulders.

“I’m on leave and great at surprises!” God, Bucky had missed his booming laugh.

Dum Dum holds him tight, big hand cradling his head like he still needed protection. God, maybe he did. The last time Bucky saw Dum Dum, he was being loaded onto a stretcher. Bucky doesn’t remember much, but he does know that Dum Dum and Gabe saved his life that day.

“Oh man, I missed it, didn’t I?”

Bucky whirls around so fast, he’s pretty sure he steps on Dum Dum’s feet. But there in front of Bucky is Gabe-Motherfucking-Jones.

“Fuck,” Bucky curses and pulls Gabe in tight. Gabe laughs, rich and full, squeezing him tight.

“Ah man, I’ve missed that smart ass mouth of yours.” He grins, rubbing Bucky’s back.

Bucky’s so overwhelmed, his heart is pounding in his chest and his eyes are hot and full.

“Fuck,” He repeats as they part, wiping his eyes. “How the fuck are you both here? How did you get leave at the same time?”

“Don’t worry about that, Buck.” Dum Dum grins. “We’re here now and I think you owe the two of us a beer.”

Bucky laughs, grinning ear to ear. “I think I owe you guys a bit more than that.”

He’s so deliriously happy and he realizes then, that all of these incredible people are here for his stupid birthday. This inconsequential thing. But to these four people, his parents, and his sister, this day is important because he very easily could have not been here today.

For one of the first times since he woke up in the hospital, Bucky realizes that he’s happy to be alive.

“Beer.” He echoes, realizing he’d just been staring at his friends like a fool.

He orders three pints and it’s not until all three glasses are in front of him that he realizes his mistake.

A bit of his earlier joy leaks out of him, struck with how much his life has changed. He feels stupid and embarrassed, looking to the back door in case he can see Clint or Natasha.

“Hey Buck,” A familiar voice to his left tears him away from his impending crisis, saved by Steve Rogers.

Looking at him, Bucky realizes he’s never seen Steve outside of the clinic. He’s dressed in smart black jeans and his broad shoulders fill up the navy button-up shirt beautifully, the sleeves rolled up to his forearms.

He looks _devastating_. Bucky’s mouth goes dry and his chest feels like it’s been cleaved open, his heart just waiting to pop out and land, hopefully safely, in Steve’s hands.

“You look gorgeous.” Bucky says without hesitation simply because it needs to be said. Steve Rogers is completely and utterly gorgeous.

“He changed two times.” A new voice says beside Steve. Bucky blinks, having been completely unaware of the man not two feet from him.

“Oh, hey, I’m Bucky.” Bucky greets, feeling a new twinge in his heart. The man smiles up at Steve with sincerity that only comes from knowing someone for years. Loving them.

“Hey man, Sam Wilson. Happy birthday!” Sam’s smile is contagious and Bucky can’t help but grin even as his chest collapses a little.

“Thank you.” Bucky flushes a little, gesturing at Steve towards the beer. “Would you mind giving me a hand.” Bucky can’t help but grin at his own semi-joke.

“Smooth,” He hands Sam something wrapped—which Bucky realizes with a jolt is a gift—and takes two beers.

“Lead the way.” Steve points a full-force smile on Bucky, his entire face lit up, backlit by the bar lights. He looks like the goddamn sun and Bucky aches for him suddenly, even though he’s standing right in front of him. Was it possible to miss someone if they were already there?

“Just follow the one-armed man.” Bucky’s smart-ass mouth takes the lead for him, as usual, while his brain is slowly reforming from the mush it’s become just being in Steve’s presence.

He needed to get his shit together. His friends were here, too, and he didn’t want to spend his entire birthday mooning over Steve Rogers (as thrilling as that would be). Dum Dum and Gabe had miraculously taken leave and while Bucky wasn’t self-centered enough to think he was the sole reason, they were still here.

Bucky could still remember the desperation of leave. The stress of fitting in everything you loved and missed into the span of days, weeks if you were lucky. It always left you wanting more so, yes, the fact that the two of them deemed this worthy enough was a testament in itself.

Bucky shoulders open the back door, the handle thankfully broken after years of drunk twenty-somethings slamming in and out of it. His friends—his friends, Bucky still couldn’t believe they were all here—look up, thirsty and expectant. Natasha raises an eyebrow, pursed lips hiding the thrilled smile that tugged at the corners of her mouth. Dum Dum and Gabe are smiling wide, unaware of the Steve Situation.

Clint, though, is a glorious godsend and Bucky has never loved him more. His eyes go comically wide, lips parted, darting between blonde-haired, broad-shouldered Steve, his impossibly attractive friend, and Bucky.

“If they’re hiring models to help one-armed dudes carry beer then cut my arm off right. Fucking. Now.” Natasha answers him with a peal of laughter that’s typically reserved for just Clint and Bucky. It’s a bright laugh that eventually dissolves into unattractive snorts. It’s Bucky’s second favorite birthday present so far.

Steve is flushed and Sam looks charmed. This is going so much better than Bucky could have ever expected.

“It’s not as glamorous as it looks, trust me.” Clint doesn’t look convinced but takes the beer in Bucky’s hand and passes it to Gabe.

“This is Sam and Steve. This is...everyone.” His friends introduce themselves one by one, kind and welcoming. Clint takes Steve’s brief distraction to shoot Bucky a mouthed “Holy shit,” and two thumbs up.

_I know, right_. Bucky thinks happily to himself.

Niceties eventually make way towards the inevitable, “How do you all know each other.”

“That saucy thing,” Clint points to Natasha who blows him a kiss, “Is my partner. She met Bucky through some training thing. Boring. I met Bucky when Nat ditched us for a super secret spy mission and we got beer, 99 cent pizza, and held hands all night. It was magical.”

He wasn’t wrong. It really had been an excellent night.

“Army.” Gabe says simply with a wide grin, Dum Dum nodding beside him.

“Physical therapist.” Steve raises his hand. Bucky grins adoringly at him.

“Physical therapist’s friend.” Bucky hangs on “friend” and feels a little of that lost hope filling him up again.

“Well, now that _that’s_ taken care of,” Bucky nods at Steve and Sam. “You two need beer.”

Clint and Nat take the liberty of getting the rest of the beers and the seven of them cheers to Bucky, the army, their makeshift group, and the future. It’s the first of many cheers for the night.

Sam, Bucky finds out quickly, is definitely not Steve’s partner, just a very good friend. His energy is contagious and he, Dum Dum, and Gabe connect instantly, giving each other shit about the Army versus the Air Force.

“How’d you meet, Sam?” Bucky asks. He and Steve were seated close together, thighs barely brushing. Bucky felt like he was going into overdrive. It was an unseasonably warm night, a slight breeze blowing Steve’s hair back with every gust. Looking at him was almost painful, his heart crushed with each beat, hand clenched around his pint glass. Bucky was taking too many sips, anything to keep him moving, otherwise he was sitting alone with his strange jitters.

Outwardly, Bucky knew he looked calm, a little lovestruck, probably, but at least his expression wasn’t mirroring the desperate feeling he was actually drowning in. It was a pleasant drowning at least, lost in the tides of gorgeous, kind Steve Rogers.

“He wasn’t a patient if that’s what you’re asking.” Steve grins, taking a sip of his own beer. “I met him on a run, actually.”

Bucky makes a face.

“What?” Steve asks around a laugh.

“You would be a guy that runs for fun.” Bucky makes an exaggerated frown, nose wrinkling.

“It’s good for you.” Steve chastises fondly.

“So is sleeping.” Steve laughs, head tilted back, hand on his chest. It’s so dorky, so incredibly endearing, Bucky almost wants to cry.

“Guess, we’re not going on a run anytime soon.”

“Now,” Bucky grins, “I didn’t say that. If I get an invite from you, I may have to give it a whirl.”

Steve smiles at him and Bucky smiles right back, heart pounding in his ears.

“Oh, I, uh, I almost forgot. I got you something.” The tips of Steve’s ears go red. Bucky follows the flush with his eyes, a red hue running down Steve’s neck and disappearing under his shirt.

“Hey, no fair. We’re not gift-giving friends.” Clint yells from the stairs, two beers in hand, tell-tale stain on the front of his shirt. He hands one to Sam and returns to his seat, scooting closer to be nosy.

“Don’t worry, it was only a dollar.” Steve smiles, running his thumb over the small wrapped box.

“A dollar? C’mon, I’m worth a little more than that.” Natasha makes a questioning, high-pitched hum besides Clint and Bucky shoots her a playful glare.

Steve looks a little nervous at the sudden attention, clearly not meaning for his gift to cause such a stir. “It’s just a little th—.”

“Open it!” Dum Dum cajoles.

Steve smiles up at Bucky, looking a little embarrassed but also like handing over his gift to Bucky was the only thing worth doing.

“Happy birthday, Buck.” Bucky’s breath catches in his throat, eyes locked on Steve’s, fingers blindly taking the small box. He swallows hard, blinking and turning his attention to the tiny gift. It really was a small box, maybe three by four inches. The wrapping paper had cute little balloons and Bucky wondered absentmindedly if Steve just had the wrapping lying around or if he went out and bought it.

Unwrapped, it was a black, cardboard box. Bucky looked up at Steve, eyebrow raised. Steve nodded at him, barely containing his grin.

Bucky lifted the lid and inside was a finger puppet. A finger puppet of a strange, eerily detailed left hand.

Bucky’s mouth was open, eyes wide, but he did not care. He put the tiny hand on his pointer finger and looked up at Steve with unbridled glee.

“Well,” Steve started, “I thought you could use a hand.”

Bucky was given yet another gift when Clint let out one of his patented scream laughs when he saw the tiny hand. Even Gabe and Dum Dum were laughing harder than Bucky thinks he’s ever seen them. Natasha was laughing but more so at Clint.

“That’s so fucked up, man.” Sam shakes his head at Steve, grinning from ear to ear.

“It’s perfect.” Bucky breathes, beaming at Steve. “This is the best birthday present I’ve ever gotten.”

 

***

 

The tiny hand is a hit. Clint commandeers it, bringing it with him to get the next round of beers and the bartenders have a good laugh as well. Steve grins as Clint spins around the bar high fiving random patrons with the tiny hand and wonders if it’d be weird to buy another one to give to Clint. This was quickly becoming the best dollar he’s ever spent.

He shakes his head, feeling light and surprisingly comfortable sitting between people who were essentially strangers. Despite just meeting, they clicked almost instantly. Dum Dum and Gabe were warm and friendly, oozing calm and clearly still protective of Bucky. They watched him when he wasn’t looking, brief glances to make sure he wasn’t alone, that he was okay, and, no doubt, to remind themselves that he was still breathing.

Steve had overheard Dum Dum mentioning to Sam that they were there when it happened. The carefully controlled expression on his face betrayed by his eyes, darting to Bucky with clear concern. They were good guys, brave men, and Steve was already thinking of a way to thank them for who they saved without coming across like a sap.

Clint and Natasha were complete opposites of each other that somehow fit in the most endearing way. Clint was quick to laugh and joke, while Natasha was content to roll her eyes but egg him on in her own way. It was alarmingly sweet.

Despite the cast of characters and hopeful new friends, Steve’s eyes couldn’t focus on anything but Bucky for more than a moment.

Bucky was completely and utterly in his element. It was sobering seeing him with his friends, getting glimpses of Sergeant Barnes, as well as a relaxed Bucky. His shoulders loosened more and more with every laugh, he gave each friend care and attention, jumping from conversation to conversation so nobody was left out.

Steve couldn’t help notice, selfishly so, that despite Bucky’s inclusion, he hadn’t moved from his spot on the wooden bench beside him, the two of them pressed thigh to thigh. Steve felt his movements, every laugh reverberating through his chest.

“What losers.” Bucky grins, leaning back against the bench, stretching his arm out across the back of it. “Some Friday night you’re having, huh.”

Steve shrugs, “It’s not so bad. The company’s not too shabby.”

“I can’t believe they actually came.” Bucky smiles, looking at Dum Dum and Gabe who were taking turns playing quarters with Sam and Natasha while Clint had disappeared with the tiny hand again. “I really can’t, man.”

“I’m glad they did. Makes a much better birthday present than my tiny hand.” Steve smiles, watching Bucky stare at them with awe and pride. “You’re worth it.”

Bucky turns to him, corner of his mouth quirking up. Steve’s ready for a terrible line or for Bucky to dissolve their moment of seriousness with a joke, but it never comes. Instead, Bucky just smiles at him and says, “Thank you.”

“I’m glad you’re here too.” Bucky says, eyes focused forward on his friends again.

“Me too.” Steve smile. He gets the rare opportunity to look at Bucky freely, takes in what a vision he makes in his dark jeans. He has on a simple black tee with a black bomber jacket over it. It was warming up but there was still a chill in the Brooklyn air and for once, Steve was thankful for it when it put Bucky in this charming outfit.

His hair was starting to get longer, curling just at the nape of his neck, bangs falling past his nose. It looked good on him, a sign of growth and, in Bucky’s words, “A sign that I’m not in the fuckin’ Army anymore.”

“Hey, I like the hair,” Steve grins, forgetting where they are for a moment and tugging gently on a lock that’s fallen into his face.

Bucky grins, pushing the strand back behind his ear. “Thanks. Don’t worry, though, I won’t let it get to man bun status.”

“Really?” Steve raises a skeptical eyebrow. “I dunno, I can see you committing to this new look of yours. Really exploring what it means to be a Brooklynite in 2018.”

“Oh god,” Bucky groans, head falling back. “If I ever become one of _those_ dudes, please cut off my other arm, Stevie.”

_Stevie_. Steve presses his lips together, hiding the force of his smile.

“What?” Bucky asks with a grin, seeing Steve’s playful hesitance. “What is it? Are you actually into man buns? Is that really why you won’t date me.”

“No, it’s nothing.” Steve promises but Bucky doesn’t look convinced.

“C’mon Steve, I have a mental catalog of all the patented Rogers smiles and that one ain’t on the roster. What is it?”

Steve’s chest all but heaves as he looks back up at Bucky. This man who has taken the time to memorize his smiles and Steve has no doubt in his mind that he has ‘cause that, Steve has come to realize over the past few months, is who Bucky Barnes is. He interrupts Steve’s Saturdays to read him a funny joke or tell him what his kid sister’s up to. He uses every pet name in the book during their sessions to find out which ones make Steve’s nose scrunch up, which ones make him smile, which make him laugh, and which make him blush and change the subject. Bucky always tells Steve that he’s “all in” and Steve’s trying to figure out the best way to tell Barnes that he is too.

“It’s nothing.” Steve says, trying to find his voice. “You just called me ‘Stevie’, is all. You’ve called me that a few times.”

“Does it bother you?” Bucky asks, frowning slightly. He was always so accommodating when it mattered. Sure he teased and poked fun but he never intended to make Steve actually feel uncomfortable.

“No, not at all.” Steve’s throat goes a little tight all of the sudden. “My mom used to call me ‘Stevie’ sometimes. She passed away about ten years ago.”

Ten years on and it still hurt.

Bucky’s entire face falls and Steve can’t stand it. “Oh...oh, Steve, I’m sorry. I can stop if you want, I don’t want to bring up any—.”

“Buck, honestly, it’s fine. I—” Steve placates with a smile, reaching over to squeeze Bucky’s knee. “I never thought I’d hear it again. It’s good. Honestly.”

Bucky still looks like he’s been punched in the chest.

“Seriously, if you want me to stop I—.”

“Buck,” Steve laughs around his name, shaking his head. “If I wanted you to stop, I’d tell you. I’m sorry, I probably shouldn’t have said anything.”

“Don’t do that. You know I want to hear all about Steve.”

“You know, I’m not that interesting as you think I am. I’m not playing self-deprecating here, either. I don’t do a whole lot.”

“Well, you run.” Bucky starts.

“That’s true.” Steve grins, taking a sip of his beer.

“And you make people feel better with self-imposed torture.”

Steve makes a noise of protest before swallowing his sip of beer. “It’s not that bad.” Bucky gives him a stern look and refuses to backtrack.

“And you’ve got an ass that I—.”

“Buck!” Bucky cackles, clearly pleased with himself. Steve shakes his head and tries to stifle the laugh that’s already bubbling out.

 

***

 

Steve’s squeezed between Bucky and Clint, blushing as the ebbs and flow of laughter still pulse from Sam’s story of a fateful night in Montero—one that’s become legendary thanks to Sam’s storytelling.

“Oh my god, Steve, you have the worst luck.” Bucky was still laughing, right arm holding his stomach as he doubled over. “Who gets head butt at a karaoke bar?”

“This guy.” Steve smiles, snapping two thumbs towards himself. “That night, if anything, was a true testament to my terrible singing voice.”

“And your poor song choices.” Sam chimes in.

“And _that’s_ my cue to leave.” Steve grins as everyone groans in protest.

“Sorry, guys, I have an early start tomorrow and it’s,” Steve pulls out his phone and curses. “Fuck. It’s late.”

Truth be told, he didn’t want to leave. He could easily sit pressed close to Bucky for another hour or two, but he had an early appointment the next morning.

“You sure, I can’t tempt you with another Five Boroughs?” Gabe questioned, waving a pint towards him.

“Maybe next time.” Steve smiles, making his way around the group to say his goodbyes. In a few short hours, Steve felt like he’d made new friends. He’d traded emails with Gabe and Dum Dum with a promise for beers. Natasha had stolen Steve’s phone to program her number. Clint, Steve, and Bucky already had plans for a Met’s game. (“Something we can watch without feeling invested.” Bucky justified wisely with a grin.)

“I’ll walk you out.” Bucky offers, ignoring Clint’s muttered, “ _I bet you will_.”

The inside of the bar is significantly darker than its outdoor area, not to mention louder. Steve wonders what made Bucky choose High Dive. Nothing against the bar in question. Steve himself has ended many nights in High Dive, as well as a smattering of bars in the area.

The two of them worm their way out of the crowded bar, sliding past groups of friends and first dates, Bucky at his heels.

How many times had he narrowly missed Bucky? Had Steve ever slid past him in a terribly lit corridor on the way to the bar? Brooklyn was as big or small as you made it and Steve, having lived in Brooklyn his entire life, considered the borough his own personal backyard. The idea that he never ran into Bucky, or worse, never recognized him, seems impossible to him.

But Steve was a different person a few years ago, Bucky had been too. Maybe it hadn’t been the right time for the two of them to cross paths.

“Thanks, Buck.” Steve says once they’re outside.

“For what?” Bucky grins, the cool breeze rustling his hair.

“For inviting me. Letting me into your life.” It tumbles past his lips before he has a chance to worry over it.

It takes Bucky back, Steve can see it register over his face. The empty space between them shifts into something new, different.

Steve’s always faced things head on. Why should this be any different?

“I know we still have a few more appointments but after them...how would you like to get coffee sometime?”

The sounds of the passing cars dull and the passersby, however few, become ghosts around them.

“I’d like that.” Bucky’s face brightens with the force of his grin. He’s so beautiful it makes Steve physically ache to look at him. A pretty pink flush climbs up Bucky’s neck and ears, coloring his cheeks, and Steve’s left stumbling over a “Great!” and “Well, goodnight, then!”

“Steve?” That soft voice would stop Steve in his tracks anytime.

“Yeah?”

“That was a way better present than the tiny hand.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was at Montero when a Head Butting situation occurred. It was absolutely ridiculous and I think of it often. #brooklyn


	5. Chapter Five

“And that’s a wrap.” With a series of stretches, exercises, averted eyes and a lot of clearing throats, they were done. Bucky was free of physical therapy. The appointment was short in comparison to the weeks before, more of an overview of what they’ve worked on and exercises he needed to do on his own.

“I’m really proud of you, Buck.” Steve said, standing in front of a quieter-than-usual Bucky.

“Thank you for everything, Steve. Really, I mean it.” Bucky smiles softly, bringing himself to his feet.

“So,” Steve smiles, rocking back on his heels. “How ‘bout that coffee?” All this time playfully flirting and leave it to Steve to be the one to make the actual move, the one to take that figurative step forward in their relationship—friendship or something more—while Bucky stays still and talks a big game.

It was everything Bucky hadn’t known he wanted before he met Steve Rogers: a relationship and chance to fall in love. Before his injury, his career had been his life, before that he’d been a kid. Sure, he thought about falling in love, but it was an abstract concept, a would-be-nice scenario. When he stepped through those doors so many weeks ago, he didn’t realize he was going to be falling into someone who would make him feel whole. For a few precious hours every week, he was able to step out of himself and become someone with goals. Someone who didn’t spend most of their day reliving a collage of moments leading up to, and including, the worst day of his life. It played behind his eyelids again and again and again and he woke up choking on it every morning.

Ironic that the moments where he was facing his disability directly were the ones where he felt the most at peace. His therapist thought that he should explore that, but he already knew that had to do with the man in front of him and his soft, kind eyes.

And therein lies the problem didn’t it.

Bucky was lying. He’s been lying to Steve. He wasn’t charming or funny. He wasn’t an endless stream of wit and flirtatious ramblings. He was an empty shell with a pretty coat of paint.

He was empty.

Steve looks at Bucky so painfully earnest that Bucky’s heart skips a beat. Bucky bites the inside of his cheek, teeth finding their indentations from years of the act, and clenches his jaw.

Steve was waiting, patient and kind, and Bucky finds his voice.

“I can’t.”

It visibly shocks Steve and Bucky can feel every crushing moment of it, his own hollow chest caving in with each tepid breath. “I’m sorry.”

Bucky doesn’t remember the words he stumbles over, doesn’t see the confused look on Steve’s face because his eyes are focused on the hardwood floor. His breaths are thin, not enough, but he can’t afford to stay there one more second. He can’t take one more moment feeling Steve’s disappointed, empathetic eyes on him.

He doesn’t know how he makes it out and through the doors, shaky legs making their way down the steps and onto bustling Fulton Street but he makes it to the bus stop and comes to as he rides the B69 past the trees beginning their first bloom of the season.

Bucky expected himself to feel something other than the ebb and flow of anxiety he always felt but he didn’t. He’d been itching for a date with Steve since he saw those slacks stretched over muscular thighs but here he was, weeks out and a hundred smiles later…

He looked out the window and felt nothing.

 

***

 

His new therapist called it a relapse of sorts and, according to her, it was common. Something in him had snapped, its jagged edges tearing at his soft insides.

Leaving Steve rejected and confused had just been the tip of the iceberg. What followed was a quiet mental breakdown that came all too easily. Bucky fills his week with nothing. He lays in bed, blind and uncaring to the worried looks and conversations outside his door. Ignores his sister’s phone call. He allows himself to sink into his own head, laying in bed with his eyes closed and watches his whole life play on a loop. It’s a menial existence but it feels like the only one he’s ever known.

He digs himself into his own sense of self and comes back annoyed and frustrated. Nat’s words echo in his head, bouncing off the walls of his thick skull, when he comes out of a particularly draining slump, gun in hand, fingers clenched tight around the handle.

If there was ever a moment, this was it.

_“You don’t have to feel guilty for living.”_

Bucky tucks the gun back in his drawer and grabs his phone. He was so tired of walking in between unknowns. Would he or wouldn’t he. It was an exhausting battle that, he realized with a jolt, he didn’t want to fight alone anymore.

“You okay?” Clint says in lieu of a greeting, answering before the first ring had a chance to end.

Bucky swallows, throat tight.

“No.”

Clint’s standing in Bucky’s room in less than fifteen minutes, which, from Bed-Stuy, was a near impossibility.

“How did you know?” Bucky asks flatly, sitting cross-legged on the bed and drained after confessing his shit storm of a week. Clint listened patiently but didn't look surprised.

“Your mom’s been worried. She emailed Nat. The rest is history.” Clint gestures to himself, smiling sadly. “You look like shit.”

Bucky always did appreciate Clint’s honesty. “Thanks, man. You too.”

“At least, I have an excuse. I’ve got a dog that’s discovered the magic of digging. Maybe you could come over sometime. I’ve heard four-legged things are good for the soul.”

Bucky hums noncommittally. “Maybe. Lucky, right?”

“Right.”

Clint checks out the pictures on his wall, thumbing over the no longer sticky remnants where stickers and stars covered the wall.

“So, what’s next, man?”

“I don’t know,” Bucky answers honestly, words spilling out of his mouth. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. One step forward, four steps back.”

“I’m by no means a professional but from one fucked up guy to another, I can tell you that you’re not dealing with it.”

“Not dealing with it?” Bucky repeats, gripping the anger swelling in his chest. “It’s all I fucking think about. It’s not like I can ignore that fact that I’m missing an arm and even more of my sanity.”

“You’re reliving it, not dealing with it.”

“How the fuck am I supposed to deal with something like this. Fuck, you don’t think I’m trying?”

“Bucky, I love you, but you’re not trying. Not really.” The truth of it stings.

“Fuck you.” Bucky glares. Clint stares back, unfazed

“No. I know we all love feelings when they’re all bright, shiny, and especially when they’re new. You’re whatever-thing with Steve probably felt good, huh? Then reality came tiptoeing around the corner like it always does. That’s where fucked up brains sprint for the hills.”

Clint moves around the room, stopping at his dresser to pick at the flaking paint. As carefree and fun-loving as he is, it’s easy to forget that Clint’s been in Bucky’s shoes. Several times. Bucky swallows, eyes darting to his hands, fingernails bitten down.

“I’m a basket case. I can’t sleep without the light on. I wake up screaming or choking on nothing every night. I can barely make it outdoors without my mom.” Bucky lets out a hollow laugh. He’s been holding on to that one for the past couple of months.

“You’re healing. You’re always going to be healing. Facing it can’t be ignored." Clint says, tone gentle.

"You can’t put all your fucked up feelings in a box, label it ‘Untitled Bullshit’ and leave it to gather dust. You have to unpack that shit. You can’t box it up, it doesn’t work like that. Trust me, if it did, my brain would be a fucking UPS store.”

Bucky laughs, running a hand through his dirty hair. “I know you’re right. I _know_ what needs to happen, I just...I don’t even know where to start.”

“How about therapy.”

“I have a therapist.”

Clint hums, trained eye seeing right past his bullshit. “And when’s the last time you went?”

Bucky’s eyes dart to Clint who looks knowingly at him.

“When’s the last time you went?” He repeats.

Weeks. It’s been weeks.

“Start there." Clint says when Bucky doesn't answer. "Start small. Not every day is going to be a momentous achievement. Eat a bowl of cereal a day and call it a goal. Start where you can.”

“That’s pathetic.” Bucky winces the moment it’s out of his mouth.

“Fuck you.” Clint’s tone goes hard and rigged. “Don’t diminish achievements just ‘cause they’re not earth-shattering. We all gotta start somewhere.”

“I’m sorry, Clint. You’re right, I need to start small.” Bucky falls back on his bed. “I keep giving myself these grandiose goals and get ticked when they’re not attainable. Small is smart.”

Bucky feels the bed dip as Clint climbs on to lay next to him.

“Small is what we got, man.”

Bucky laughs, elbowing Clint and reveling in the curse he gets in response.

Small pieces of Bucky click into place. They don't fit quite the same as they did before but it's a start. Still, there's an aggressive gnawing in his chest and he knows just what it is. Clint seems to know it as well. 

“What’re you gonna do about Rogers? Wait ‘til all that’s sorted,” Clint taps Bucky’s forehead. “Or go for it.”

Bucky sighs, “I dunno. The logical thing to do is to wait until I get my shit together first but if I'm being honest, I don't want to wait. Is that selfish?"

"Maybe." He answers honestly, expressionbut shrugs, "But who am I to say. I did the same thing." Clint hums thoughtfully. " _Are_ you going to get your shit together, though?"

Bucky pauses, swallowing the initial "yes" that was sitting on his tongue. He was tired of making halfhearted promises. If he was going to be honest with his family, his friends, Steve, he had to start being honest with himself. Clint's question echoes in his head, filling him up with fear. Was he really going to commit and take those steps? Be willing to fall over and over again? This was only the beginning of a long, long road he's been too scared to take. 

"Yeah, I am." It's a pivotal and heavy moment, the moment a stark contrast to his casual surroundings, the pitter-patter of every day life going on all around him.  

"Good." 

They lay in their newfound silence, no longer filled with the weight of uncertainty. Bucky was scared, sure, but at least there was a path among the brambles. 

“He’s crazy about you." Clint starts, "We could all see it.”

Bucky sighs, squirming under Clint's 

“That doesn’t make me feel better.” 

“It wasn’t supposed to,” Clint says honestly. “As far as he’s concerned, you bailed the moment you could. At the least, you owe him an apology.”

“I don’t know if I can get through an apology without asking for more.” Bucky’s heart pounds in his chest. “I don’t even know what this means, yet,” He presses a fist to his chest, “But I think I’d like to find out.”

“That’s scary.”

All of his breath leaves him in a rush. “It is.”

“It’s worth it though. They’re always worth it.”

Bucky nods. He knew Steve was worth it, he just wasn’t sure if he was.

“Do you need me to physically kick you in the ass to get moving ‘cause I’m willing to do that if you need a head start.” Clint says after a long silence.

Bucky grins and for once he knew exactly what he needed to do.


	6. Chapter Six

When Bucky finally gets to Park Sports Physical Therapy it's nearly 8pm. If his work ethic is anything to go by, Bucky assumes Steve is one to work late so he powers through his nerves and up the steps leading to the building. The hallway lights are low, but Darcy is on the other side of the glass door, keys in hand. She does nothing more than blink at him before she opens the door, joining him in the hall, and closing it behind her, putting herself in front of it like a shield.

“What are you doing here?”

Bucky inhales sharply. “I need to talk to him. I—.”

“Fucked up.” Darcy finishes for him. “You did.”

His breath leaves him in rush, shoulders sinking. “I know I did. I’m an absolute mess but I’m working on it. Properly this time. He’s...this is the only thing that makes sense.”

Darcy pins him with narrowed eyes for a moment before opening the door for him and stepping aside. “Why don’t you tell him that.”

Bucky stumbles over a thank you and hurries through the doors. Inside the fluorescent lights are half off, casting the gym in an eerie glow. It’s empty, Darcy and Steve the last to leave.

Bucky’s feet guide him through the dimly lit gym and into the familiar corridor. His heart pounding in his throat and palms slick with sweat. He’s so close and he has no idea what he’s going to say. All he wants is to see him, lay his eyes on him again and hope the right words come.

Steve’s in the room Bucky’s taken to calling theirs. He’s standing behind his chair, zipping his backpack up, clearly ready to leave for the night and looks up at Bucky standing in the doorway. He blinks in shock, standing up straight and still.

“Hey,” Bucky says dumbly, heart crushed in his chest just at the sight of him.

“Hi,” Steve repeats, eyes darting over Bucky. “What are you doing here?”

Bucky’s mouth is dry and his eyes are suddenly hot.

“I’m so sorry.” The apology shakes Steve from his surprised stupor, expression shuttering closed. It’s a dead giveaway to the confusion Bucky’s caused him. Bucky had spent weeks trying to get Steve to feel something for him and once he did Bucky had run.

Standing in front of him, Bucky’s faced with it. He can feel it coming off of him in waves.

“What are you doing here?” Steve repeats firmly.

“I’m here to say sorry.” Bucky says simply. “I know that’s no reason to bother you but I am. I ignored my own recovery, thinking I could do it on my own. It’s taken a big kick in the ass to realize I can’t.”

Bucky’s hand is shaking, shifting from foot to foot nervously. Steve stays stock still in front of him, eyes narrowed at him.

“I felt like I was lying to you.” Bucky blurts. “That person, confident and cocky.” He laughs bitterly, looking up at Steve. “I’m a mess, Steve.” Regardless of what it may cost him, it feels good to say it out loud, feels it in his bones, and know that he’s trying.

“So you assumed I would run at the first sign of trouble instead of letting me decide that for myself.” Steve interjects. Bucky swallows, sheepishly nodding.

“It wasn’t right to assume on your behalf, but I panicked.” Bucky runs his hand through his hair nervously.

“I stopped going to therapy. Thought I could figure this shit out for myself.” Bucky says honestly, gesturing to his head.

“And now?” Steve prompts.

Bucky smiles fondly, “I'm going to go. Give it a real shot this time, ugly shit and all.”

“I should have been honest with you from the beginning. You’re...you overwhelm me, and when you were finally in reach I freaked. I’m not blaming you, I’m just...I’m trying to be honest. My words don’t always come out right but I just want to be honest with you. I never want to lie to you.”

“I’m still a wreck, but,” Bucky swallows past the tightness in his throat. “I think about you all the time.”

Bucky wants to squirm underneath Steve's stare but he wills himself to stay still, staring right back at him. 

"What are you afraid to tell me?" 

Bucky blinks, words slipping through his mind like sand. 

“I don’t sleep at night.” Bucky blurts, taking Steve aback.

“I—wake up screaming.” Bucky confesses. “I killed someone I was supposed to protect. He was in my unit and he was...he was brilliant.” Bucky’s eyes go unfocused, seeing dark, stained sand and smelling singed hair and—.

“I made a bad call and someone else paid for my mistake.” Bucky swallows, focusing on Steve, latching onto him like an anchor. Steve’s eyes are clear and open, letting Bucky see everything in them: his sympathy, his confusion, his longing. There’s so much that Bucky has to look away, focusing on the delicate curve of his neck.

“I’m not really funny, or even particularly nice. My moods jump all over the place and I haven’t found a stable dose for my medication so it’s only going to get worse until I do.”

“I’m ridiculous, Steve. And you can do so much better than me.” Tears prick at the corner of his eyes as he looks back up at him. He’s painfully gorgeous, eyes so incredibly gentle. “But I’m trying to be better. I want to become better.”

Steve slowly moves from behind the chair, taking a few quiet steps towards Bucky.

“The accident made me overly attached to my parents and I don’t see that changing anytime soon.” The words just keep coming, the cadence of his voice picking up speed. “I'm addicted to my routine right now and I'm trying not to ruin that stability.”

Steve takes a few more steps, standing in front of him but Bucky doesn’t move, eyes still transfixed on his neck, vision blurred.

“There are days I won't speak and days where I won’t shut the fuck up.”

Steve reaches out slowly, gently holding Bucky by the elbow, rubbing his thumb lightly against his skin. Bucky blinks, a few tears falling from his overflowing eyes.

“The way I feel about you scares me and I know I’m too much and nowhere near ready but I’m tired of waiting to play catch up.” Steve reaches up with his other hand, thumbing away tears as they fall, smearing cool against his cheek. Bucky breathes in shakily, daring to look up at Steve.

He smiles softly at him, holding him gently and cradling his cheek as though he were something precious. Bucky feels every pulse of his heart, each pound slamming against his bones painfully. He didn’t know he could feel a physical ache just by looking at someone but there he was, in pain from the overwhelming onslaught of feelings for this man who was slowly guiding his heart back in its place and didn’t even know he was doing it.

Bucky reaches up, pressing his hand against Steve’s cheek, thumbing over his cheekbone.

“Anything else you think I should know?” Steve asks softly, lips tugged up in a tender smile.

“I will never go running with you.”

Steve laughs, bright and promising.

“Is that okay?” Bucky asks, wide-eyed and hopeful.

Steve grins, tucking Bucky’s long hair behind his ear.

“Yeah, Buck, it’s okay.”


	7. Epilogue

“I’ve got the last box.” Steve smiles and juts his chin back towards the front door, a wordless push to say goodbye to his parents.

“Thanks.” It comes out hoarse as the reality of it all falls on his shoulders.

His room was empty and the rental car was filled with a few boxes of clothes and books. It wasn’t much but it was his, and it was going to his new apartment in Crown Heights. Bucky reached down for the hundredth time to feel the keys in his pocket. He had his own place, a dinky little studio on Dean Street.

He’s done more in the past few weeks than he thought possible. He’s farther than he ever thought he’d get. After he woke up in the hospital, he couldn’t think past the bed or the door to his hospital room, much less days, weeks, months into the future. He didn’t want to.

Now, here he was, sweaty and out of breath, and he couldn’t wait to get out that door. There was going to be someone on the other side of it, standing beside him to take those next steps.

Bucky finds his dad in the backyard, cursing under his breath as he tried to fire up the grill.

“I think you should let Mom do that.” Bucky smiles.

“It’s this damn, propane tank. Your mother wanted a charcoal grill.” He looks up from where he was kneeling and fiddling with the knobs. “I should have listened to her.”

Bucky laughs and kneels beside his dad, gently shoving his hands out of the way. A prayer, twist, and the grill was good to go.

“Well, shit, guess you don’t need me anymore, do you?” George laughs, wiping his hands on his pants and standing to pull Bucky into a hug. “I wouldn’t say that.” Bucky grins, squeezing his dad back.

“I’m so proud of you, James.” George squeezes his son, rubbing his back and holding him tight before letting go. Bucky swallows around the lump in his throat. When he was growing up, having such an affectionate father had been embarrassing. Bucky remembers worming out of the hugs in front of his friends, pushing him away as he ruffled his hair before his first day of high school. He remembers how his mother would gently remind Bucky that his father was trying to be the father he didn’t have growing up. Bucky couldn’t have cared less when he was 14, but now—older, one arm less, and a touch wiser—he wouldn’t trade his affectionate father for anything.

“Thanks, Dad.”

George pulls away with brighter eyes and sniffs. “You two should get going before it gets dark. What’re you boys going to do about dinner?”

“We’re going to be fine, Dad. We’re big boys.” Bucky laughs.

Inside, Winifred is at the kitchen table, flipping through the paper.

“We’re gonna head out.” Bucky says because he can’t think of what else to say. It’s been nearly fifteen years since he moved out of the house for the first time. He’d left his parents for Uncle Sam, and he remembers it feeling more like an adventure. Today he was moving out for the second time but this time there was a weight that was lifted, leaving something important in its wake.

Bucky felt heavy. He’d probably see his parents in a couple days, but there was a finality to the moment that he was overly aware of. He could feel the door closing, a feeling he’d been immune to as a young, naive eighteen-year-old.

“I don’t know how to thank you guys.” He says softly, breaths coming quicker. Winifred smiles sweetly at him, coming from around the table to put her arms around him. “You already have. You gave us a very nice future son-in-law.”

His laugh leaves him like a punch to the chest. “You know I’m not moving in with him, right?”

Winifred waves it off. “I see the way you look at him. A mother knows.”

Bucky wraps his arm around her, overwhelmed by her. She didn’t know him inside and out, the way mothers wished they knew their children, but she knew the things that mattered most, usually before he even did.

“Love you, Ma.” Bucky kisses her cheek. She wipes her eyes as he pulls away, shoving him towards Steve who's been patiently waiting on the steps outside. “I love you too. Don’t forget to text us when you’re home and settled.”

It’s getting cooler outside, the breeze bringing that crisp October air that will turn the leaves brown and crunchy. Pumpkins and black cats could already be seen in the windows of a few Park Slope homes. Bucky inhales deep, filling his lungs with that cool air and promise of change.

Steve smiles at him the moment he’s in view. “You ready?”

Bucky nods, looking up into those blue eyes and knowing in his heart that he was already home.


End file.
